


Poster Boys

by semi_sweet



Category: Fall Out Boy
Genre: Fake Dating, Grammys, M/M, Smut, cheating but not between them, i js live for pete's grammy look
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-15
Updated: 2019-02-15
Packaged: 2019-10-29 04:51:11
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,713
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17801360
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/semi_sweet/pseuds/semi_sweet
Summary: Who the fuck holds the Grammys on Valentine's anyway?





	Poster Boys

**Author's Note:**

> hello my lovelies. I know I'm late I was at twenty one pilots last night and couldn't post. pls do not eat me I don't appreciate that much. 
> 
> hope you like this thang I tossed up for u. Enjoyerino

“Babe.” If that wasn’t a word Patrick hasn’t heard in a long time.

 

There  _ was _ a point at which it was familiar, part of his day-to-day. Not just in the beginning, when it would be whispered, wet and desperate, or moaned, longing and passionate, but even after the first weeks, months, years. Initially it meant something. 

 

“Love you, babe.”

 

“Come on in, babe.”

 

“Watch out, babe.”

 

There was an affection to it, an unspoken promise to keep each other safe and from harm. To watch out for one another. To be honest and loyal. From there, it, like so many other things in long-term relationships, became casual. And at first it was nice, it was always a reminder that, even when he’d not brought the trash out  _ again _ , he was still loved. A disclaimer before being told off, a “hey this is kinda annoying but I still love you”. 

 

Patrick isn’t quite sure when that stopped. Maybe it was their first child, a young boy, a toddler, first took up their time with what a little wonder he was, then with his short temper. Trips to the principal became more frequent than the signs of affection between the two men taking them until the arguments they had with their son turned into arguments they had with each other. 

 

Maybe if he could pinpoint it to just one instance, these things wouldn’t happen. If the fallout was predictable, few people would still head into it full-force. 

 

Or maybe they were doomed from the start and Patrick got carried away in dark eyes and dark hair until he was in the belly of the beast, a ring on his finger and two kids he stood as much chance in winning a custody battle over as he did surpassing 6’. Actually, scratch that, with a pair of plateau combat boots, a Mohawk and a little dedication, he could totally manage 6’.

 

The first two years he’d still asked, begged, sometimes, for him to throw on a suit and go with. It humiliated him at first, being the only loner in the crowd, miserably dragging his overpriced shoes through the hall in the search of a champagne glass that could keep him company as he expertly avoided stars, starlets, plus-ones and, if at all possible, the media.

 

“Oh, he’s had to stay home with the kids,” was his first go-to excuse, then, upon realising that everybody was very much aware of his ability to pay for a nanny without so much as noticing the miniscule dent in his savings account, he switched to a long-winded anecdote, carefully planned and plotted beforehand, that would end him on the perfect “sorry, what was the question?” before inventing a distraction. This year’s isn’t as good as it could be. Holding the grammys on Valentine’s is a punishment in and of itself but the humiliation is tenfold when your husband can’t even be fussed to drag his lazy arse out of the house.

 

Now, he’d be thoroughly beyond caring were it not for the dreadful boredom that comes with being forced to sit through and awards show you never actually won anything at, anyway. Patrick has the perfect solution for this, however: Power Banks. Hours and hours of internet connection as you sit in an uncomfortable plastic chair waiting for the time to pass. He basically knows who’ll win tonight, the dearest Academy follows a very obvious pattern and his place in it is the successful yet slightly obscure musician every fan of R&B knows, yet very few people outside of it do. Neither famous nor indie enough to actually win, but good for the views. 

 

His rebellion is not to dress up. This year? The refusal to wear a shirt under his jacket. No, no, he’s not, like, showing off his chest hair (getting thicker and thicker with age and, no, he’s not proud of the reminder that he’s almost halfway through his thirties), but a black t-shirt offers coverage and a hearty  _ fuck you _ to any designer trying to wrestle him into an expensive shirt (and Leo who rolled his eyes when he saw the outfit, but he’s not here so why should Patrick care what his dear husband has to say?). 

 

He can already see the sign with  _ Patrick Stump _ scrawled on it in ugly handwriting for all those photographers who won’t know who the fuck he is with a beard covering his face and his chicken yellow (not his word, mind. Leo’s) hair. A hundred lenses aimed at the spot where he isn’t. A few years ago, he’d have been nervous, he’d have cared. But honestly, Patrick is so past giving a shit that the amount of shits he gives is so miniscule it’s undetectable to the human eye and the majority of the world’s measuring instruments.

 

So, there he is, half a foot on the carpet, the other half on the cheap gravel (a metaphor for his life, surely), ready for another night of endless boredom and torturous reminders that everybody else has a family supportive enough to show up or, at least, the freedom to bring whoever the fuck they want, when, all of a sudden and apparently out of thin air, he hears that word he’s not heard in years.

 

“Babe, wait up!” 

 

Patrick, of course, doesn’t react. Why would he? He’s nobody’s babe, the only person who could possibly say it A) hasn’t done so in longer than he can recall, and B) isn’t currently present, likely balls-deep in somebody Patrick will inevitably get to know in approximately six hours. Oh, it’s not like Patrick doesn’t have his own bit(s) on the side, he can just hardly bring them to the damn Grammys. 

 

But then somebody touches his shoulder. Startled and confused, Patrick turns to look, and possibly snap, at the intruder to his personal space.

 

But oh.

 

Wait.

 

He’s cute.

 

_ Way _ too cute to just shrug off. Tan skin, amber eyes - god, he’s  _ weak _ for amber eyes - short, well-kept stubble, hair pulled back in what Patrick presumes is a bun and already feels the need to tug at. Oh, he’s staring, he knows he is, and like so many other things in life, he doesn’t care.

 

“I, uhm-” is all he manages to stammer out before gorgeous stranger’s face cracks into a smile and Patrick  _ dies _ a death inside. Oh, if only he were still free to take his pick of men he can publicly flaunt. 

 

“Keep your left hand in your pocket,” a gentle voice whispers against his ear, so close he can feel it, before a hand he doesn’t know but is incredibly soft links with his own and he’s pulled onto the carpet. 

 

Patrick, quick on his feet for once, has the sense to glimpse at the second sign the woman is now struggling to hold up. 

 

Pete Wentz.

 

Okay, he doesn’t know who that is, but he’s cute, he can work with that, even if he’s not a hundred percent convinced this is the smartest idea he’s ever had. 

 

But before he knows it or can do anything to change the situation he seems to have stumbled into, the sounds of shutters overwhelm him and he’s drowned in an ocean of blinding white light. He barely remembers to smile, constantly aware of Pete’s arm worming its way around his back. 

 

They get hustled on, from one corner to the next until finally, finally, they reach the tent, still a nightmare but maybe Patrick can slip through it, he usually manages to escape here where the film cameras aren’t broadcasting his assholeishness to the outside world. 

 

But just as he’s about to make his grand move, his speed-of-light sprint to the other end of the gangway, he’s reminded of the arm around his holding him back.

 

“Hey, hey, don’t run off, babe, come on, smile!” That time, no matter how cute he may be, Patrick can’t help but shoot a glare towards Pete Wentz that would kill a man dead but evidently does nothing to harm the… whatever he is.

 

“What are you?” 

 

“A human person?” Pete manages to somehow enunciate through the grin plastered on his face, getting painted onto a thousand photos of his dazzling grin and Patrick’s cheesed off scowl. 

 

“No, what’s like your job, why are you here and why-” he squirms uncomfortably as Pete’s hold on his arm tightens “why are you kidnapping me?” 

 

Pete looks straight on, a carefully rehearsed smile flashing for the cameras, his eyes are glowing almost as much as his pearly white teeth and, man, his immaculate appearance is insufferable. Patrick wishes he was alone as usual, not having his scraggly beard and half-assed outfit compared to the best dressed guy in music (and yes, his hair is in a bun, a perfectly sculpted little thing obviously put together by an actual stylist, unlike the homemade mess residing on Patrick’s head). 

 

“Go along with it, okay? Just smile and be all, I don’t know, lovey dovey.” 

 

Patrick scowls. 

 

The shutters click. 

 

The lights flash.

 

And then, just like that, it stops and they’re in the uncomfortably familiar foyer. The loud chatter and press calls from the outside die down to the low hum of the crowd and, finally, Patrick can turn to talk to Pete.

 

Pete, who’s lost the huge, shining grin, and is fiddling with the buttons on his jacket, mouth pulled into a concentrated pout. 

 

“What exactly was that about, man?!” the reality of it is just hitting him, it was a bit of annoying fun when he was out there, high on attention and a hot man clinging onto him but now? Here in the come down where set hot man isn’t even looking at him? Those photos will already be all over the internet, going straight from the cameras to shutterstock and from shutterstock onto whichever gossip rag is quickest to upload. 

 

Officially, he’s married. And not to Pete.

 

Pete just looks at him like a lost puppy.

 

“Oh my girlfriend dumped me, like, two days ago. I didn’t wanna show up alone like a complete loser. You seemed like you were lacking a plus one also so, well, here we are,” he shrugs, “no biggie.” To Patrick, the whole thing is not that simple, who the fuck does this guy think he is?! Patrick’s not some ornament, some prize, some handbag to be dragged around when it suits!

 

“No biggie? Dude are you kidding?! I have a husband!” Is he expecting an apology? Remorse? Embarrassment? 

 

Whatever he is expecting, Pete doesn’t give it to him, but merely glances around, a frown on his heavy brow before his eyes catch Patrick’s once again.

 

“Then where is he?” 

 

“I-” That, Patrick has to admit, is not the question he’d thought he’d be asked. “At home. Looking after the kids.”

 

“On music’s biggest night? On  _ Valentine’s _ ? No money for a nanny?” 

 

“I-” he flounders about for an answer, his mouth moving without sound as he tries to conjure up the pre-prepared answer he was studying until five minutes ago. 

 

“Look, I don’t really care much if you’re single or not, I just needed somebody to drag over the red carpet with me. Now, if I’m honest, I have no fucking clue who you are, aside from the fact that your surname is ridiculous. If you want you can dance off now and do your thing, I’m sure you have loads of friends to meet. But the fact that you’re  _ still _ stood here talking to me tells me you don’t really wanna.” 

 

Something, he’s not sure what, but something about Pete makes Patrick’s speech centre go into shutdown. Maybe it’s his smooth tone, the way he seems totally undisturbed by Patrick’s fluster, or maybe it’s just the way he pulls up his eyebrows when he looks up, the way his mouth purses as he scans the room, the softness of his hands he was feeling until a few minutes ago. 

 

“So either fuck off or shut up.” There’s an expecting look thrown his way. He wants an answer, wants Patrick to make his mind up. Lord be damned, he’s never been one for smart decisions.

 

“Who are you?” He asks again. 

 

“I’m a producer,” Pete replies this time, “up for best electronic/dance… album? Song? I’m honestly not sure anymore, if I hear my name I’ll pinch myself and then jump up.” That sounded reasonable.

 

“What about you?”

 

“Oh, uh, R&B. Best performance. And album. Won’t win either though.” Pete merely shrugs.

 

“Same. Do they even televise R&B?” He shakes his head.

 

“Haven’t even presented it in god knows how long, honestly, I’m not sure how the fuck I’m gonna find out.” He’s barely finished the sentence when Pete waves his phone in front of his face, showing the official twitter feed.

 

“You’re kidding, they dump it on the internet?” 

 

“Yup. Rock categories right now.”

 

“Fuck off!”

 

“I know right? No respect for music anymore.” He shakes his head like he’s genuinely outraged and, okay, Patrick might not be an expert on the modern dance/electronic scene, but he can respect a man that is passionate about music.

 

“So you… like rock?” Pete nods, almost too enthusiastically.

 

“Love it, man. I’ve always said if I weren’t a producer I’d be in a rock band.”

 

“That so?”

 

“Oh, definitely, you should have seen me like… ten years ago, dude.”

 

“I dunno,” Patrick quips with a casual shrug of his shoulder, “the long hair is already pretty rock’n’roll, dude.” Pete laughs at that. 

 

“Yeah, dunno, more midlife crisis than rock’n’roll, really.” 

 

“You scrub up pretty well with it.”

 

“Hah! You should see it when it’s down and I’m not in a designer suit.”

 

“And a bowtie.” With a grin, Pete reaches up to it and gives it a little wiggle. Patrick can’t help but laugh.

 

“See you’ve dressed down.” Patrick has. Patrick, for the first time in two years and quite a few award shows, feels embarrassed. 

 

“Uh, yeah. I’m not, like… big on the public yanno… displaying of myself. I’m a musician not a model.” 

 

“Seems fair.” It’s, in all honesty, a frankly ridiculous excuse when he’s standing next to a musician who could easily pass as a model. But then again, Patrick is short, fat and balding with a beard to rival his great-uncle Martin’s. Pete, well, Pete isn’t tall but he’s lean. And yes, yes, maybe Patrick is wondering what’s underneath that clean, crisp white shirt, give him a rest, he’s not had regular sex for ages. If his husband can fuck other men, he’s allowed to fantasise about them. (And sleep with. On occasion. Semantics, semantics.)

 

“Ah, look! I didn’t win!” Pete suddenly pronounces, holding his phone in Patrick’s face once again. “No surprises.” 

 

“Sorry man, I’m sure you deserved it.” Pete shrugs.

 

“Yeah, I did actually, not gonna lie. But hey, we all know the Academy.”

 

“Let me guess, you’re neither popular nor indie enough?”

 

“Ah, spot on, i see you’ve seen through their tricks.” A confident nod from Patrick.

 

“Always.” He thinks he’s seeing things when Pete, an adult, a hot adult in a suit worth more than most people’s monthly salaries, finger guns him and winks. Patrick’s mouth drops open.

 

“Did you just-”

 

“Yep. Bisexual finger guns. Try and stop me.” The disbelief made him shake his head in wonder of the man he’d just bumped into. What an odd person. 

 

“Has anybody ever told you you’re a bit weird?”

 

“Mmh, hundreds of times! It’s my branding.” Patrick raises his eyebrows.

 

“Your… branding?”

 

“Yup. Have you seen nibbles go round? I’m not hungry just yanno… greedy.” Something about his slim physique makes Patrick highly doubt that.  _ He’s  _ greedy. He’s been prone to the odd hunger flash at three in the morning that may or may not have involved pickles dunked in nutella and garlic sauce straight from the packet in the past. Pete, Pete’s white girl greedy. A burger a month that goes on instagram captioned “cheat day”, followed by two hours of workout. That’s not greedy.

 

Pete, however, turns out to be an expert at locating food nonetheless. And bubbles. Lots of bubbles. Patrick may be three glasses in when the phone is held in his face.

 

“Look! You didn’t win either!” Unsurprising. A tiny bit disappointing. Patrick shrugs. Patrick finishes his glass. Patrick reaches for the next one.

 

“Heyy, slow down!” He glares at Pete when he feels a hand on his arm. 

 

“D’you really wanna stay for the rest? I’m honestly over it, done my bit, worn the suit, pissed off the ex, I could do with a Subway and some microwave nachos, you up for that?” Patrick shrugs, partial to the odd footlong. 

 

“I’ll take that as a yes, come on.” 

 

Patrick feels like a little kid as Pete grabs his hand and drags him through the rows of people in fancy clothes, out of a door by the side of the stage and down a corridor the cameras certainly aren’t meant to see until they reach the outside. He giggles, partly the champagne, partly the company, and clings onto Pete’s arm as he’s dragged out of the back entrance to the venue. He’ll blame it on the alcohol. 

 

The subway isn’t far, two blocks down and round the corner. Pete looks comically out of place in his suit and tidy hair. So much so Patrick reaches up to it, tugging on the tight knot at the back of his neck. 

 

“Ow! Hey, dude, gently, gently.” Patrick giggles his apologies as he watches Pete’s own fingers untangle the bun, letting his hair fall freely strand by strand. It’s… long. Past his shoulders. There’s an urge in him to grab at it, tug at it. The same urge telling him to bite at his lips until they’re raw.

 

He can’t.

 

“See? Told you it was messy.” Oh, but his grin, his blinding grin. Patrick swallows down and inappropriate compliment. 

 

“I’ll have a footlong tuna on… parmesan oregano, monterey, everything but tomatoes, aaand… mayo.” he rattles off his order to the lady with the plastic gloves. He feels shivers down his spine when Pete leans in close, so close his hot breath is hitting Patrick’s neck.

 

“I bet you’ll have a footlong…” Patrick part laughs, part flails as he turns around and glares at him, unconvincingly, that damn grin still on his face.

 

“Yea? Doubt you can help me there.” Pete just wiggles his eyebrows and bounces up and down like a kid on its third bottle of cola.  

 

They sit down at one of the not-wood tables, one in the corner for fear of passing paps. 

 

“I’ve not been in one of these for a long time,” Patrick remarks as he’s halfway through his sandwich. 

 

“Really? I come all the time, still.”

 

“Cheapskate.”

 

“Diva.” Patrick sticks out his tongue. 

 

“So,” Pete begins, casual, halfway through licking the BBQ Sauce off his fingers, “this husband of yours… where might he be? And, like… more importantly, do I have to worry about him?” 

 

Patrick freezes. 

 

He wasn’t expecting this topic, oddly, despite it being an obvious one, especially as the band on his finger suddenly seems impossibly tighter, cutting into him, more like a cuff than a promise. 

 

“Oh, not a good talking point?” No. Not really. He shrugs it off.

 

“We stay together for the kids.” 

 

“Meaning… he’s holding a custody battle over your head whilst he shags his way through Hollywood?” Death is just shy of taking Patrick as he chokes on his sandwich. “Sorry.”

 

Maybe there is still shame. His failure to keep the promise, his failure to fix the rapture, his failure to try hard enough. He shrugs.

 

“I mean, it’s true I guess. Got bored of me and found someone prettier.” He takes a large bite out of the footlong, like it’s something else entirely he’s tearing apart.  

 

“Prettier? Wow, how did he do that?” Patrick dropped his sandwich.

 

“Are you… hitting on me?” 

 

“I don’t know, is it working?” 

 

“Does it look like it’s working?”

 

“From my perspective yeah, I got you out of the Grammys and into this. And now you’re downing a footlong, which, frankly, is an indicator that you could do with a dick up the ass.” 

 

Patrick can  _ feel _ his eyes bulge. He looks around hurriedly only to find there’s nobody there to actually listen to them. Odd that. 

 

“Can you not like… fucking say shit like that? Especially not out here!” 

 

“I mean am I wrong though? How long’s it been?” Patrick shifts uncomfortably, suddenly very aware of his own body. 

 

“I dunno. Few weeks? Don’t fucking look at me like that, man, I’m not gonna sit still whilst my husband fucks every dude available!” 

 

“Wait, who is your husband, maybe I’ve fucked him.”

 

“Fuck you!”

 

“Okay.” He shakes his head. 

 

“Just… not here.”

 

“I wasn’t going to fuck you here. But I can have a taxi take both of us back to my place.” 

 

He shouldn’t. Patrick knows he shouldn’t. Patrick is fully aware that this is a dumbass, stupid idea and he should not go home with Pete Wentz tonight. Of all nights, there would be way more papps in the area than usual. 

 

But Patrick’s tipsy and Patrick’s lonely and god damn it, Pete’s right. It really has been a while. 

 

“Yeah, okay, okay, whatever, yeah. Before I change my mind.” The grin on Pete’s face is devilish.

  
  
  
  


Patrick’s house is large. Not massive, not a mansion, exactly, but large and plopped nicely on the side of a hill so he overlooks the Hollywood sign. And it has a pool. And floor-to-ceiling windows. Because what else do you do with a million? (more, it was more than a million. 3-7 million to be precise.)

 

Pete’s house is none of that. It’s big, for sure, but hidden away behind trees and bushes, an italian-style bungalow, pretty, cute, even, terracotta walls and archways on the outside. The inside is segmented into large rooms rather than the huge open-space plan Patrick knows from home. Not that he gets to see much of where Pete lives before he’s being led through to the living room. It’s too dark to see anything beyond the fact that there are large paintings on the wall of the hall, but he doesn’t know what’s on them. It’s a bit spooky. 

 

Pete turns on the light but leaves it dim before plopping Patrick onto the sofa and then wandering off in the other direction entirely. 

 

“Hey where are you going?” He hears the beeping of the microwave just as the empty nacho box is held up. He can see into the kitchen from his spot on the sofa. 

 

“You were serious about those?”   
  


“Yup.” This guy is ridiculous. Patrick says as much. Pete just grins.

 

“So how unhealthy exactly are these?” Patrick asks as Pete wanders over, warmed up chips and cheese dip in hand. Not that he cares, he just needs to say anything. “After that sub my body is already screaming and I-”

 

He stops dead when Pete kisses him. 

 

It’s only brief, but the mere sensation of it leaves him breathless and ogling at the guy in front of him who is  _ really fucking hot _ . 

 

“Was that okay? Sorry I kinda just saw an opening and w-” 

 

The nachos lie forgotten as Patrick grabs his face and pulls it in, seeking out the warmth and softness of his lips, gone too soon. Pete doesn’t protest as he leans back, still clinging onto him, pulling him down with him. 

 

The reality of it hits him when he’s lying down fully and he feels the weight of another human on top of him. There’s a brief second in which he just things about bolting, hurling Pete away from him and legging it, but then it becomes heated, urgent. His breathing picks up, rapid, hungry, and his left hand begins roaming Pete’s body, slipping under his coat and carefully tugging his shirt out of his pants. Pete doesn’t object. 

 

He can feel himself getting harder, his own trousers suddenly too tight and he can’t stop the little moan from slipping past his lips. Thankfully, he doesn’t remain alone in it, and as he unbuttons his jacket, Pete starts panting against his lips. 

 

“Want you,” he mutters between kisses. Patrick wants, too. Patrick wants.

 

“Fuck,” he breathes as Pete slips out of his jacket, revealing the tight-fitting white shirt and the bowtie hanging undone from his collar, the first buttons already open. 

 

“God, why am I so underdressed?” Pete smirks.

 

“Fuck the Grammys, right?”

 

“Fuck me.” That must be the champagne talking,  _ must _ be. But Patrick doesn’t disagree with it.

 

“Gladly.” He dives back in, clashing their mouths together, this time it’s hot, wet, messy, their breaths replaced with groans. Pete peels the jacket off Patrick’s shoulders, followed by the shirt and he has to remind himself that he was definitely targeted for a  _ reason _ . Maybe Pete just has a shit taste in men, but he’s not put off by the sight of Patrick’s bare torso. On the contrary.

 

“Fuck,” he whispers as he kisses along Patrick’s neck, “fuck you’re hot…” 

 

“Take your shirt off.” Pete sits up until he’s on his knees, hastily unbuttoning his shirt before letting it drop open. 

 

Patrick chokes on thin air. 

 

He reaches out, tracing the black ink with his fingertips, the thorns, the bat. He notices the way Pete’s hips twitch when he nears his crotch and lets his hand fall to the button on his trousers. His fly springs open as he peels his shirt off his arms, revealing two sleeves of tattoos, Patrick can barely make out what they are and makes a mental note to check in the morning but for now he’s too set on getting the pants off this guy. 

 

Pete steps out of his pants, throwing them across the room, his briefs clearly showing off his erection and Patrick can’t help but note that, from here at least, his is quite bigger. He’s a guy. Of course he’s gonna compare. 

 

“You next.” Pete mutters before leaning back down and going back to kissing him. It’s slower this time, deeper and Patrick wraps his arms around Pete as he starts unbuttoning his trousers. He doesn’t take the layers off one by one, peeling Patrick’s boxers down as he goes, still kissing him, not opening his eyes. 

 

His cock leaps free, hitting his stomach and making him gasp, but Pete still doesn’t look down, rather crawling up to straddle him. Patrick whines when he feels a soft, familiar hand wrap around his length, slowly testing it out. 

 

“Mmmh, feels like a decent dick you have there.” His voice is hoarse, low. 

 

“Why don’t you look?”

 

“You want me to?” He feels heat rising to his face almost as rapidly as to his dick. “You proud of it?” 

 

“Maybe.” If Pete doesn’t wipe that smirk off his face he might come there and then. 

 

“I’d best take a look then, hadn’t I?” True to his promise, he breaks eye contact. The over-dramatic gasp he lets out almost gets him a beating. 

 

“Don’t be so sulky, let me be a drama queen! Alright, your penis is impressively large, happy?” Patrick rolls his eyes. 

 

“My turn.” The way Pete pushes himself back onto his knees is almost animal; graceful and powerful. Patrick watches transfixed as he peels his briefs off, revealing a dark cock, not especially long but good enough, curving upward towards the bat. Pete takes the tip between his fingers and gently rubs at it, his mouth dropping open beautifully. A whine escapes Patrick. 

 

“You want this?” The porn dialogue shouldn’t turn him on the way it does, “you want my cock?” His lip catches between his teeth as he nods. He wants Pete, wants to feel him, all of him. How the fuck has his night turned around so rapidly? 

 

“I’ll be right back.” He says before scooting out of the room. Patrick has a faint idea of what he’s getting. He stares up at the vaulted ceiling, golden in the warm light of the lamp, and wonders how he’s managed to get such a hot guy in his bed. Well. Not in his bed. Not in any bed. Oh god, his back is gonna hate him tomorrow morning, he’s too old to be doing this anywhere that isn’t a $1000+ mattress. 

 

Pete re-emerges relatively quickly, KY and condoms in hand. A whole strip of them. As if Patrick had enough stamina for that. 

 

He drags Pete back in for a kiss, one hand tangling in his hair, finally getting to tug at it, the other groping at his bare ass and, god, what an ass it is. He’s so focussed on kneading that gorgeous ass that he doesn’t notice what Pete’s hands are doing until he feels a cold, wet finger slip between his cheeks. Patrick winces and Pete backs off immediately, his eyes searching for the reassurance that he can go on. He nods. He wants this.

 

“Relax,” Pete whispers as his finger begins circling the rim, “you’ve gotta relax, babe.” His heart leaps at the term of affection and, just like that, his body is breached. Patrick gasps when Pete slowly slides, in, gently pumping his hand, testing out the slide of it, the heat. 

 

“Good?”   
  


“Fuck, yeah.” He picks up speed, crooking his finger and moving about before slowly trying the next, all the while keeping Patrick’s lips occupied. 

 

“ _ Fuck _ , fuck, there!” he yelps suddenly as Pete hits the spot, “fuck, right there.” His thighs tense over and over as Pete brushes over it, rubs at it, makes that bundle of nerves low in his back shoot fire through his veins. 

 

“Ready for me?” 

 

“Yes.” 

 

He almost mourns the loss of the fingers driving towards and edge he knows he can’t tip over untouched, until Patrick feels the blunt head of Pete’s cock, rubbered up, smothered in lube, press against him. His breath hitches.

 

“Ssh, relax.” 

 

“Kiss me.” Pete leans in, slowly, his hair falling forward over his face, and Patrick realises just how utterly mesmerizingly beautiful the golden brown of his eyes is, even in the dim light. He closes his own in anticipation, mouth hanging open, waiting like he’s sleeping beauty and Pete’s come to wake him up. 

 

It’s soft and warm and comforting when Pete kisses him and Patrick, well, he hasn’t felt like this in a long time. He wraps his arm around Pete’s shoulders and pulls him closer, hitching his legs up until they’re as far apart as he can get them on this sofa and when Pete slips in, he lets out a quiet mewl. 

 

Pete breaks the kiss, gasping, open-mouthed as he slowly pushes forward, every inch of him burning through Patrick. 

 

“Is this okay?”   
  


“Yeah.”   
  


“Tell me when to stop.”

 

“Okay.”

 

But he doesn’t. Pete keeps going until their hips are pressed together and drops his forehead to Patrick’s and tries to calm his breathing. It’s quiet, it’s slow, it’s hot and Patrick is already struggling not to blow his load. 

 

“Move.” He mutters as the burn begins to feel uncomfortable, and Pete does as he’s told. The first few thrusts aren’t painful, but not pleasant either, but once Pete settles into a rhythm, once he picks up speed, it’s good. 

 

“Fuck,” Patrick groans as he wraps one leg around Pete’s waist, letting him go deeper, change his angle until he’s teasing at Patrick’s prostate, “fuck, nearly…” he speeds up, going deeper, harder, and Patrick’s fingers twist into his long hair and pull at it, tugging his head back to expose his throat. Pete never slows down, inches away from that spot deep inside him. Patrick tries to shift underneath, tries to reposition himself without Pete noticing, but fails. 

 

“Wait, hang on.” He leans back onto his knees and takes Patrick’s thighs, pushing them back against his body. When he picks up again, Patrick sees stars.

 

“Oh my… fucking… fuck…” The feeling of him, the sensation of his cock, a real cock, filling him up, dragging through him, makes him dizzy, just the thought of it enough to knock him out. How,  _ how _ did he manage to end up underneath LA’s hottest guy instead of in a cheap plastic chair watching everybody else win awards. 

  
  


“Fuck, I’m close, Pete,” it’s not been long, a few minutes, but he can’t help it. He’s hard, desperate, being fucked sore by the prettiest man he’s seen in a long time and, well, his stamina isn’t quite what it once was.

 

“Me too.” Pete ants back, beads of sweat forming on his brow. Patrick lets himself drift to a place of pleasure, his eyes squeezing shut as his orgasm builds, he knows he’s one touch of his cock away from blowing his load over the both of them, but if he can hang on more, a little more…

 

Pete grips onto his thighs for leverage, furiously fucking into him, his mouth hanging open as he pushes himself closer and closer and Patrick shouldn’t have glimpsed, he shouldn't because there is no way he can last with that sight between his own thighs.

 

And then Pete touches his cock and it’s all over.

 

Barely a stroke and he’s coming, the overwhelming pleasure drowning his brain, his body, shooting hot and cold through his nerves, making his eyes roll to the back of his head as he convulses beneath Pete, every muscle flexing simultaneously and his mouth drops open in a strangled cry he couldn’t possibly dream of holding back.

  
  


When he comes to his senses, the first thing he notices is the heavy weight on his chest. 

 

The few times him an Leo still fuck, rarely, but it does happen, there’s never any affection after. It’s a quick orgasm followed by a quick leave. The surge of happiness he feels when he realises Pete’s on top of him still, cock soft against his leg, wrapping his arms around him loosely and breathing heavily, isn’t like anything he’s felt in at least 18 months. Patrick clings onto Pete, presses a kiss to his stupid, long rockstar hair and decides to worry about his reputation in the morning. 

**Author's Note:**

> kudos and comment would b raddy my tumblr is [scmi-sweet](https://www.scmi-sweet.tumblr.com) pls come talk to me I need friends


End file.
